Before Dawn
by Suzie's Q
Summary: James knows that sneaking around with another woman is dangerous. He's got a throne waiting for him, he's betrothed to a princess from the neighbouring kingdom, and he's running out of time. But danger has always found him, and James only has eyes for the most dangerous woman in the world - his fiancée's younger sister. AU, royalty.


I don't own Harry Potter, or anyone else for that matter. This will probably be the first of several royalty fics for these two, because I'm slightly obsessed. Not explicit or anything, but gets quite suggestive around the middle there. Happy reading!

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**Before Dawn**

James stares up at the unfamiliar ceiling, shifting uncomfortably in the bed. He'd suspected that he'd been given one of the castle's finest rooms, but it feels wrong to him. Of course, he reasons that that hardly has anything to do with the room itself. It's what had happened in it.

He shifts again, and throws one of the blankets off him before his skin burns up, his stomach heavy and twisting in knots every time he thinks about it. For a few seconds, he watches the moonlight spill into the room as the curtains sway in the wind that comes from the open window, feeling a chill ripple over his skin.

And then the door opens. The first night, he'd thought it was quite strange that they hadn't knocked before they entered the foreign prince's bedroom, but it had quickly become clear why they hadn't. The handle barely creaks as the door opens, but suddenly all his senses are heightened and sharpened, and it feels like the whole castle would be woken up by that little noise alone. Then, of course, he can't hear anything at all, because his heart starts pounding so loudly it blocks all other sounds out.

His skin feels like it's burning again, but not from all the blankets this time. He swallows and tries to tell his heart to stop doing somersaults, because out of all his bad ideas, this has to be the worst.

"You shouldn't be here, Lily."

She's carrying a candle with her so he can see her face; she shuts the door behind her and leans against it, grinning over at him in the dim, flickering light. He knows he should, but he can't take his eyes off her, clad only in her nightgown. As a young prince, he'd seen more of girls than he was supposed to, but there is something a lot more delicate about a _princess _so scarcely clothed. Especially the one he is _not _engaged to.

"That's not what you told me last night," she replies, striding over to his bed and setting the candle down on his nightstand. She has a scrap of parchment, and she sets it aflame so she can light the other lamps in his room. She has a few blankets draped over her arm, and she places them on the end of his bed. "It's a cold night," she explains. "I felt you could use an extra blanket."

He sits up in the bed, staring at her, breathless. She is beautiful, so entirely different from her sister, so full of colour and excitement. She's smiling down at him, her dark hair bouncing down around her shoulders, for once free from its tight restraints. The colour is reflected in her rosy cheeks, and her smile is vivacious, setting his heart ablaze.

"Tell me," he mutters, looking away hurriedly. It hurts to look at her. He suffers it more than a blow to his chest. "Do they usually send the princess to deliver extra blankets?" He swallows again, and he reprimands himself for sounding so bitter, even though he has good reason.

He doesn't want to seem bitter to her, or harsh. What he wants to do was cradle her in his arms, touch her tenderly, and his words would be soft and gentle and loving, and for the first time in his life, he would feel complete with her there. He would be able to breathe. In the few short weeks that he'd known her, he'd started to rely on her presence for that. This is more than desire, he knows; he could feel a growing need for her, to have her near him. Her smile, her scent, even her very presence – it is intoxicating, and utterly terrifying.

He looks back at her, only very briefly. It's hard to believe that she and Petunia are related. Petunia is tall, thin, blonde, and most annoying of all, she is so reserved. James has to wonder if she even has a personality. The thought of waking up to her every morning, her bland and cold demeanour, is nothing less than nauseating.

And Lily, on the other hand, is bursting with life, full of cheek and smart comments. She's bubbly, and energetic, and so exquisitely alive. When he contemplates their future – being her _brother-in-law,_ even the thought of the word leaves a bitter acidic taste on his tongue and a pit in his stomach_ – _he wonders vaguely how he ever plans to survive without her. He tries to avoid thinking like this, because it makes him light-headed and his heart feels so heavy he thought it would drag him to the floor when he stands up.

Thinking of her at all, in fact, hurts. Now that he thought about it, looking at her hurts. And what hurts most of all, is the unavoidable knowledge that he will be separated from her from the rest of his life. But not only that, he will still see her. He will still know her and speak to her.

In his most despairing hours, he wishes he never knew her at all. His life would be easier. But he does know her, he can't imagine not knowing her, and he doesn't know how he'd live without knowing her. Maybe the pain is worth it. He doesn't know.

She doesn't sit down; it's because she wants him to stand up. "Well, it's the servants' night off," she tells him lightly, answering his question. "And I couldn't let you go without the blankets. So I volunteered."

"So someone knows you're here then?" he asks, raising his eyebrows. She leans against the wall beside the door, and eventually he can't stand it anymore, and he blinks up at her. He stares at her, eyes raking over her slowly, and drinks her in. It's like a drug, just to be looking at her. It's more invigorating and exhilarating than any amount of alcohol.

She grins at him, her hands placed behind her back on the wall, and shrugs her shoulders delicately. "Well . . . Strictly speaking, _no_," she murmurs, her voice low and husky. She's looking at him, and he realizes that it's in the same way that he looks at her – like she's getting drunk on the sight of him.

Figuring he has nothing to lose, he gets to his feet and walks around the bed, never taking his eyes off her face.

He stands about a foot away from her, and her gaze never wavers from his. She's waiting, he knows that, but he can't bring himself to move or speak right away. He doesn't know how long they stare at each other, but he realizes that he would be content for time to freeze at that second, to stand here and stare at her for the rest of forever. It doesn't seem so bad, given the alternative.

She seems comfortable too, to stand there in silence and simply look at him. The thought makes his heart swell, despite himself. No one says anything for a long time, and eventually James clears his throat.

"Thank you for the blankets," he says quietly. Her mouth quirks up at the corner, and it takes everything he has in him to not lurch forward and kiss her senseless.

"You're more than welcome," she replies curtly. She even makes a small, mock-curtsey, the way she's been taught. It makes James laugh, the way she always does. How does she even do that?

"I suppose you'd better be going now."

"Should I?" she replies, and though her tone is still playful, there's an edge to it now. He doesn't want to start an argument, but she's almost daring him to challenge her on this. And what else can he do?

"Probably," he mutters, dropping his gaze again. "Don't you and Petunia have a fitting tomorrow morning?"

"A fitting?" She looks at him innocently, and he can somehow tell that her look of confusion is a well-practised one.

He nods, eyeing her suspiciously. "For your _dresses." _He says the words slowly, hoping she'll gauge the meaning behind them.

"Ah." She pushes herself off the wall, and takes a step towards him. He has to fight the instinct to take a step backwards. Suddenly his legs have liquefied. If he moves, he's going to fall over. And for some strange reason, as Lily has seen more of him than any other living person, he still doesn't want to fall in front of her.

"Well, luckily for _us,_" she says slowly, her eyes glinting. His chest constricts slightly. "I don't actually plan on going to that fitting. So we've got all night, love."

He gulps. He wants to be able to say he flinched away from her term of affection, but in reality it makes his heart swell to an alarming size. He can imagine her calling him that for his entire life. He wants it.

And she's going to stay with him. Again. He can't keep letting this happen, but she keeps telling him she's got _all night _and he can't help it, because he wants every night. Every single night, he wants it with her.

But there's something more pressing than that. "And why aren't you going to the fitting?"

She places her hands on her hips, her chin jutting out defiantly, and narrows her eyes. "Because I don't _need_ a dress," she says tersely, her voice clipped.

He knows he shouldn't, but he grins. "You're hardly going to turn up naked to your sister's wedding, are you?" he questions, his tone deliberately as light and mocking as he could make it. He doesn't need to picture th- too late.

"I'm not going to my sister's wedding at all," she retorts, and her tone doesn't match his at all. She's angry, confusingly angry. Just a second ago, she'd been the one teasing him. And now she's staring fixedly over his shoulder, her mouth in a hard line and her eyes steely and frosty.

"Y-you're not?" he stutters, blinking down at her in confusion.

She closes her eyes for a few seconds, and lets out a defeated, resigned sigh. "If you think I'm going to stand there and watch you marry someone else," she mumbles, turning her head away. "You're even more delusional than I thought." She looks like she's about to cry, even with her eyes closed. This isn't something he's familiar with – _vulnerability. _

He's stunned into silence, breathless, thoughtless, just gazing back at her blankly.

After a few, unbearable seconds of silence, she looks back at him, armed for defence. "What?" she snaps, glaring at him.

"Lily . . ." he starts, his voice hoarse. "You know if there was anything I could do, I'd do it."

"There is," she replies through gritted teeth. "They can't just tell you to get married without even letting you have your say."

He looks at her sadly, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm the only one in line. And apparently, I'm unfit to rule without a wife."

She blinks at him, and James thinks she looks a little struck by that thought, and it seems like her anger's receding. Though it's still there. "Then I'll be your wife," she mumbles, and she puts on a teasing, flirtatious smile. James doesn't buy it this time. She really could mean that. She's said a lot of things since this began, that she laughs off, but he's beginning to realize that that's how she says what she really wants to say.

"I mean, honestly, who would you rather, me or her?"

James scratches his cheek, chuckling. "I think I can speak for the entire population when I say you."

He's relieved to find that she doesn't look so angry any more. He sees his own wistful sadness mirrored in her expression, but he pushes it down. This can't last, and they know that. She's smiling at him now, not that jovial, excited smile. But a soft one. An intimate one.

"But I don't _want _the entire population," she croaks, chewing on her lip. "I just want _you._" She breaks, just for a second, but it's enough for him to see the anguished, pained look that passes over her features. Guilt makes his heart twang like an elastic band, even though he knows that _he _didn't make her feel that pain. Not directly, at least. Or maybe he did. He's not really sure. The only thing he _is _sure of is that he would gladly spend the rest of his life making sure he never has to see that look on her face again.

"Lily," he whispers again, ashen-faced.

"James."

The jolt that bursts through his veins at the sound of his name leaving her lips is all it takes. He crosses the room in two strides, pins her against the wall, his body pressed to hers, and takes her face in his hands. Her arms wrap around his shoulders immediately and when his mouth meets hers, she reciprocates in an almost dizzying frenzy, her lips searing his as she takes control of the kiss, more and more passionate, more and more intense until James can hardly breathe.

Her fingers tangle in his hair and his hands are roaming without him even realizing it, the familiarity of her body under his hand only making him more desperate, making him kiss her more fiercely. She moans into his mouth, her hands trailing down from his shoulders to his chest until she's tugging his shirt up from the bottom. He obliges, pulling his mouth away from hers just long enough for her to pull it over his head. He can feel her hands trembling as they gingerly stray across his now bare skin, reaching up to gently draw him even closer to her by the back of his neck. He doesn't need much encouragement. Eventually, he breaks the kiss, deep and sensual and heated like their very first, if not more so, so his lips can trail over her jaw, down her neck.

He starts slow again. He knows he should be gentle with her, because he can't afford to leave marks on her neck, and she's so small and so very valuable, but everything about her is driving him wild, and the thought flits out of his head almost the same moment it enters. He places glancing, butterfly kisses down her neck before nipping her skin. She gasps aloud at that, and when he starts to suck on her pulse point, she groans, sliding down the wall a tiny bit. Her whole body's trembling now, and he presumes her knees buckled.

They're both panting now, their hands frantically exploring the other's body, mouths desperately placed to wherever they can reach, and her nails are digging into his skin as she drags her fingers across his back. No matter what he does, where he kisses, where he nibbles or nips, he needs more. He can't get enough of her, and he can't quit her, because she is more addictive and captivating than anything else he's ever experienced and to tear him away now would be the cruellest form of torture. He knows they should be quiet, since there are likely people in the next room, and they _cannot _be heard, but she lets out a little whimper of pleasure, and suddenly there's nothing he cares less about. There is only her, her trembling figure under his hands, her smooth skin at his lips, practically burning and searing and sweaty, her lips lazily pressed to his skin whenever she gets a chance. And all he bloody cares about is hearing her do that again, for _him._

He can feel her heartbeat thudding against his chest, and every inch of him is burning up and she is all he can feel, all he's aware of, all his senses heightened and focused on her. She's completely flattened against the wall now, and while he devours her neck, she tilts her head back and audibly gasps for air, barely able to concentrate on returning his affection anymore.

Impatiently, he reaches down and grips the back of her thighs – suddenly her nightdress is gathered up to her hips – and hauls her up, pulling her legs around his waist. They pause, just in time for her to smile at him fondly, chuckling, before holding his face in her hands and turning his head up, kissing him again and again, her teeth gently tugging at his bottom lip.

She pulls her nightgown over her head, and his breath hitches in his throat. He goes back to her neck, his lips moving slowly along to her shoulder, over her collarbone. He feels weak at the knees, completely engulfed in her scent, her taste.

"Mmm . . . The bed," she gasps out, lurching forward and nibbling on his ear, practically moaning in his ear with anticipation. He grunts and they stumble towards the bed, tumbling out on it as she peels off the rest of his clothes, and they press their bodies together again, his hands tangled in her wild hair, both still breathing raggedly, her nails digging into his back, leaving marks behind . . .

It has to be hours later, or maybe it's only been minutes. James isn't used to the peaceful atmosphere that's settled around them. He doesn't know if she's fallen asleep or not, but she's resting, her eyes closed and her breathing light and slow. He watches the steady rise and fall of her shoulders, her serene expression, the way her eyelids flicker, the delicate, smooth curve of her back as she breathes.

She'll have to go soon. The physical pain that shoots through his chest at the thought is nothing less than petrifying. The realization has dawned on him several times since the first – that one day, when she leaves his room, she won't be able to return the next night – but he always managed to forget it, cut it open as though it's a fresh wound, every single night.

He can't.

How can he?

Tears sting the back of his eyes, and he blinks them back, surprised. He doesn't know when he grew to care so deeply for her. The thought of another man even looking at her is enough to turn his stomach. The thought of her spending her life with a man who wasn't him is enough to make him feel like jumping from his tower.

He never wants to be without her. Not ever.

He contemplates this; wild, half-formed and completely implausible escape plans, in which they adopt new identities and live happily with each other, ignoring their responsibilities, their circumstances of birth, a way – _any way, _because he would have done anything – that they could be together.

He's in love with her. So in love with her it hurts. It hurts almost as much as knowing precisely how this will end. A ring on his finger, of course. But bound to the wrong girl, for the rest of his life.

He trails his fingertips across her back, the back of her neck, her shoulder, down her side to her hip. Her mouth curves up in a peaceful smile. It's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. It's what he wants to wake up to every morning.

He's quiet and solemn as he does, drinking in every inch of her, laid bare and absolutely perfect. After a while, she blinks her eyes open and watches him. Then she props her head up on her elbow, and her gaze intensifies.

"Run away with me."

He doesn't know if he's been expecting it or not, but it doesn't necessarily come as a shock. In fact, it's something he's been wishing she'd say, something he's been working up the courage to say himself, even though he didn't believe in it. He's relieved someone said it – someone has enough hope to give them a chance.

But hope destroys more than it builds, and he's learned that. She hasn't.

He takes it in and stays silent for about a minute, pondering it over. "They'd find us," he says calmly after a few seconds.

"So?" she replies, matching his pleasant, peaceful tone. "They can't force you to get married."

"They can and they are," he points out, his hand pausing, hovering over her body while he looks at her intently. He tries to memorize her face – fresh and clean, her hair in disarray and her skin still glowing slightly – because who knows when he'll see it so closely, so intimately ever again, and this is one thing he never wants to forget. He doesn't know if such perfection exists outside of her.

"Well," she says slowly, frowning. His fingers resume their trail across her skin. "They can't make you get married if you're already married to someone else." She speaks slowly, carefully, watching him all the time for his reaction.

He's never seen her so sombre. This must be the longest she's gone without some snippy remark. The gravity of the situation hits him like someone's punched him in the stomach. She's entirely serious. And his heart lifts. He's dying to say yes. It's all he cares about, all he can think about. She is _always _all he can think about.

"You?" he asks, clearing his throat awkwardly. His cheeks burn as blood rushes to them. They've been intimate, of course. But this is a different kind of intimacy. This is vulnerable, and this is serious, and this is the _rest of their lives _they're talking about.

"Yes," she says immediately, without a trace of hesitancy.

"And would you marry me?" he questions, managing a small, teasing smile, wishing to lighten the atmosphere.

She throws him a dark look, like she's wondering how a well-educated prince could ask so many silly questions. But she gives him the same, immediate, firm answer. "Yes."

"Do you want to?"

"Of course I do!" she bursts out exasperatedly, scowling at him. Her cheeks blotch and stain scarlet, and he can't help but smile. She is all colour, and he wants a life of colour and vibrancy and excitement. A whole lifetime of her.

He laughs softly, grabbing her wrist as she raises her hand to smack him for asking such a ridiculous question before she has a chance to deliver a blow. He keeps hold of her wrist, staring at her, and then holds her hand between both of his, kissing each of her fingertips. "Well, we haven't known each other very long," he says rationally, as an explanation.

"Just as long as you've known Petunia," she retorts vindictively, her features darkening. "And yet you have no problem with spending the rest of your life with _her." _She looks so disgusted, so bitter. Heartbroken. Oddly, he's relieved that she cares for him enough to be heartbroken. At least he's not suffering alone.

"You know I do," he tells her quietly, reproachfully. "I didn't have a choice in that."

"So I'm giving you a choice," she says desperately, sitting up in the bed and clinging the sheets to her, gazing at him beseechingly, her eyes round and innocent. "James, marry me," she pleads. He sits up too, and his eyes are glued to her. He didn't know she had it in her to be so serious, but here she is. "James, marry me before they can stop us. Do what you want. You _know _we'll be happy." It sounds rehearsed, but from the way she reaches for him, shuffles over in the bed, clutching onto his shoulders, and gazes at him, begging him to see her and hear her, he knows it's not.

"You know we will," she goes on. "You know I'll make you happy, and you'll make me happy, so happy. And you could never be happy with her. We both know that. Just . . . marry the wrong sister, damn them all to Hell anyway."

He blinks at her, completely stunned. Everything has stopped working. His brain, his heart, his body. Her face crumples a bit when he does nothing but stare at her in shock for too long, but the sight galvanizes him to sit up straight and envelope her in his arms, tucking his fingers under her chin and pulling her head up so she'd meet his eyes.

"Marry the wrong sister," he repeats, breathless. She nods, looking defeated. But he chuckles, shakes his head, and bends his head to kiss her again, tenderly this time.

"You're wrong," he murmurs. "She's the wrong sister. She's the wrong everything. It's you I want, you know that. If I was doing what was right, it would be marrying you. You – you are the only –" he breaks off. He knows how to finish that sentence, and she knows what it is. But saying it seems so final. He's genuinely considering it, turning away from everything – his whole life, his family, a whole kingdom, filled with people who look to him and depend on him to govern, and be fair and just, as if that wasn't pressure enough.

And he thinks maybe, just _maybe, _he could do it if she was by his side.

"Then let's do it," she chokes out, holding onto him frantically, like she's afraid he's going to dissolve any second. "Let's run away, you and me. I want to be with you. I want to spend my life with you, I'm in love with you." The end comes out as a sob and he holds her a little tighter to him, his head swimming. They're in _love. _Shouldn't that – doesn't that mean anything?

He kisses the top of her head and murmurs for her to stop crying. "Oh, Lily," he sighs, rocking her back and forward until she's calmed. She looks up at him again hopefully. He hesitates, leaning down to kiss her tears away before he speaks.

"You're right," he whispers. "Of course you're right. I can't do this, I can't marry her."

"You c-can't?" she gulps, her mouth dropping open in surprise.

He raises his eyebrows, both astounded and amused by her reaction. "I c- Of course I can't," he mutters, close to laughing at her bewildered, utterly astonished face. "Lily, I am so in love with you," he laughs. "I don't even know what to do with myself. I don't know how to be without you, and I can't last another day. I need you. You are mine, just as much as I'm yours. I can't do it, I can't live my life if it's not without you, and I won't."

Her body sags with relief and she leans into him, trailing her lips down his neck to his shoulder and down to his chest. He lets her carry on her ministrations for a few seconds before he lies back on the pillows, taking her with him.

She curls into his side, her head resting on his chest, right over his heart so she can hear it thundering, slamming against his ribcage. He can't help but notice how perfectly her body seems to mould with his.

She's quiet for a while afterwards, content to lie there with him in the silence. Perhaps her mind has started racing so fast she can't bring herself to speak, as that's how he feels. He's so aware of everything; every inch of her bare skin touching off his, searing and burning his flesh; her fingertips especially, tracing patterns on his chest lightly; his whole body tingling and coursing with electric energy, his heart pumping so fast he's convinced it's going to give out any second. He doesn't get this lucky. How is this reality? He doesn't know whether to believe it – that he's lying next to this beautiful girl, the one girl he wasn't supposed to have, and she's promised to spend her life with him.

"When?" she whispers. Her hand trails across his chest in search of his own hand. He clasps hers tightly in his, the way they do when they're about to dance, her fingers grasped between his thumb on one side, his fingers on the other.

He takes a deep breath. If he wants to turn back, this is his last chance. But there is no turning back, as grim and admittedly cliché as it sounds. Behind him is only darkness. In front of him is a future with Lily, and it is light and free and happy. _She _is his light.

"Tonight," he tells her firmly, nodding and swallowing hard. She imitates him, her chest heaving as she takes a shaky breath.

He watches as she steels herself and looks up at him determinedly. She's happy. She's nervous, and confused, but this is what she wants. He's going to give her what he wants. Right there, he makes a vow to himself, though he never said it to her, that he would give her whatever she wanted for as long as she was his. He would give her everything.

"Are you afraid?" she asks. Nothing betrays her own fear except her eyes. They are certainly fearful. But her mouth is in a hard line, her face is set, her shoulders are squared. She's ready.

"Yes," he admits in a low voice, pressing his lips to her forehead. "But I'm more afraid of losing you."

This comforts her, he can tell. She relaxes in his arms, and when he tells her they've got a few hours before morning, that he'll wake her and look after her while she sleeps, she starts to drift off easily.

The only sound is her light, regular breathing, and the wind whistling outside. And he's happy too. He would have been happier if he could have stayed there forever, but she's in his arms and they have at least these few hours together before anything has to happen. They are still together, and for another while yet, nothing can take it away from them.

He wishes he could just enjoy the peace and quiet for the rest of the night – morning, by now, surely – but there _is _no peace and quiet, not to him. His mind certainly isn't peaceful. Every possibility, every outcome, is running through his head. His ideas chase each other's tails, and he grows more and more confused as Lily slips into a deeper and deeper sleep, so peaceful and untroubled. Hasn't she thought about how horribly wrong this could go?

Morning would inevitably come, and it could be the last time they ever saw each other. They can be ripped apart so easily, and it's a very real possibility. It would be just as convenient to rip his heart out of his chest if that were the case. It wouldn't beat anymore anyway.

He watches her sleep, since there is nothing else to do until morning, apart from think. And thinking begins to hurt after a while, because there is so much to think about, so much to prepare for, so much to organize. He gives up on thinking after a while, because it's overwhelming and frightening and he wants to enjoy this, these few hours with her. If they're the last they spend together, he wants them to be unspoiled, completely pure and untainted. He wants to remember this night, this moment, and her, and feel nothing but unadulterated delight – no matter what the future holds for him, he refuses to allow these memories soiled by nostalgia, or longing, or regret. If they are split, he cannot think of her and mingle his memories of her with regret. She is the best thing in his life to ever happen, and he can't bear even the thought of it.

So he puts a stop to his thoughts, and focuses completely on her, observing her. He can't sleep, because he has to wake her in a few hours so that she'll be able to slip out of his room unnoticed. They can't get caught _now. _Not when they are so close. So he stays awake, and stares at her pensively. She's so calm, and the thought is a comfort and a joy. Now he succeeds in memorizing her face, just in case.

And she sleeps with a smile on her face.

He hasn't even thought about how they plan to accomplish this. He has no plan, no idea, no inkling of where to start. All he has – or rather, all he knows he has, guaranteed – are these few precious hours with her sound asleep in his arms.

In his arms, where she belongs. And of all the uncertainties he has right now, that is one thing of which he is completely sure.

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Reviews are always welcome, thanks for reading!


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